


A Fake Sociopath

by Breath4Soul



Series: Fake It Until You Make It [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Childhood, Emotional, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Feelings, Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mind Palace, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Pirate Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>A bit of a character study - one of the ways in which Sherlock <i>'fakes it</i>' to <i>'make it'</i> in the world (with Mycroft's encoragement) and how John begins to change that.</b><br/>______________________________</p><p>He had placed everything related to <i>emotion</i> and <i>sentimentality</i> in a neat little box, wrapped it in chains and sank it the bottom of a very deep pond at the center of his Mind Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fake Sociopath

Sherlock was a fake. He was not quite human; a robot wrapped in the skin of a man. He was a barely _human,_ barely _there_ , high functioning sociopath.

“If you can't effectuate genuine intelligence, then at least you can cultivate a crude imitation,”Mycroft had said scornfully to Sherlock when they were small. “Follow my lead, baby brother.”

And that was what Sherlock had done. He had learned Mycroft's skill of deduction; practiced it, honed it to a fine art. He had built his whole brain around it. 

He had placed everything related to _emotion_ and _sentimentality_ in a neat little box, wrapped it in chains and sank it the bottom of a very deep pond at the center of his Mind Palace. 

From time to time he would go and sit by the water and gaze at it, so far down in the deep rich blue of a watery tomb. 

If he was feeling particularly morose, he would fold a little piece of paper into the shape of a ship and set it on the water. He'd watch it skim across the surface and imagine the pirates aboard it devising a plan to erect that treasure box, so far beneath the surface.

The problem of putting emotions in a box, is you can't just put the bad ones in there. Emotions are, by their very nature, messy. They are a complicated tangle flowing into, around and through one another... So you have to lock them all away. You can't just lock up the fear, anger, and pain, you have to lock up the happiness, love and joy too. 

It all must go… but once it is gone… the whole world will be empty. 

Everything was hollow and meaningless. The world was just shades of gray upon gray to Sherlock. 

Sherlock trudged along, going through the motions of existence, trying desperately to find something to make himself feel again; starting fights, drugs, solving murders, recklessly running headlong into danger and darkness hoping to capture some trace of his humanity. 

Then John Watson burst into Sherlock’s dark and lonely world. The man was instantly like fireworks against a black sky; jolting to the system. Sherlock felt the electricity crackle around him the minute John entered the lab at Bart's. 

Sherlock looked up at him and his eyes hurt. Color vibrated off of John Watson and stabbed at his corneas, burning an image of this man into the back of his mind like he had just stared at the sun. 

For the first time since he had watched that box sink to the bottom of the impossibly clear and deep pool at the center of his being, Sherlock saw something in color. The mere sight of John had rattled the perfect construct of his internal world.

In the taxi on his way home from that first meeting Sherlock had leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He drifted down to the pond in his Mind Palace, looked up and found John sitting there by the water's edge. 

Sherlock startled out of his meditation so quickly that the cabbie swerved a little and asked if he was ok. Sherlock curtly replied that he was _’fine’_ but he wasn't sure he was. 

_No one_ made it past his filters like that, _no one_ roamed free and _no one_ was allowed anywhere near _the lake_.


End file.
